“No it won’t. Not if we act appropriately tonight. What did you have planned for this evening?”
Frowning, she took a moment to recall. “Lady Forsythe’s dinner. I have to go because some of our major donors will be there. Mama was already promised to an old friend, Lady Mitchell—this is their last chance to get together before winter, so I’ll be going to Lady Forsythe’s alone.”
Barnaby thought, then said, “I have an idea.”
“What?”
He glanced at her, and smiled. “First, I need to speak with your mother.”
Penelope was too tired to argue, to demand to be told; she uncharacteristically surrendered and let him take her home. It was an odd hour when they arrived in Mount Street—six o’clock; Minerva, the Dowager Viscountess Calverton, received them in her dressing room.
She listened patiently and sympathetically while Penelope related the outcome of her return to the Foundling House and the saga of the warrant.
“And now,” Penelope concluded, “I have to appear at Lady Forsythe’s and attempt to scotch the inevitable rumors.”
“Which,” Barnaby cut in, “is a point where I believe I can help.” He spoke directly to Minerva. “Neither Inspector Stokes nor I am inclined to dismiss this false order as merely vexatious. We believe that our villain has attempted to use the police to his own ends, to strike back at Penelope and the Foundling House because they’ve largely thwarted his plans, at the very least made them much harder to carry out.”
He paused, then went on, “To take that one step further, it’s possible the villain, whoever he is, specifically intended to harm Penelope. Most ladies wouldn’t have known to stand firm against the warrant, let alone known to contact Stokes. But as someone who lives within the ton, as our villain assuredly does, would know, rumors can cause a great deal of harm within our circle. With a view to ensuring that we quash all possible rumors before they gain hold, I believe it would be wise for me to accompany Penelope to Lady Forsythe’s this evening. Even if Penelope denounces the warrant as having no validity, some may remain unconvinced, if not of her innocence then that all at the Foundling House is aboveboard. However, if I, with my known connections with the police, were to denounce the warrant as being falsely laid, few would not accept that as fact, absolving both Penelope and the Foundling House from all suspicion.”
Minerva smiled warmly. “Thank you, Mr. Adair—that’s a very kind offer, and one I, for one, would gladly accept.” She turned her dark eyes on her daughter. “Penelope?”
Penelope had been studying Barnaby, a considering expression on her face; she shook free of her absorption and nodded. “Yes. I have to admit I’ll feel much happier having some support in facing this down.”
Barnaby noticed Minerva’s blink, her surprise, quickly masked, at Penelope’s ready acceptance of his assistance, and his escort.
“Well,” Minerva said, “in that case I’ll send a note to Amarantha Forsythe and beg her indulgence in adding you to her table at such short notice.” She smiled. “Not that she won’t be thrilled. At this time of year there are so few of us present, adding another leaf will be no trouble, and if I drop a hint of the reason for your presence, Mr. Adair, I guarantee she’ll be delighted to welcome you.”
Barnaby bowed. “Thank you, ma’am.”
Minerva’s dark eyes caught his; hers twinkled. “Indeed. I was just reading a letter from my son, conveying a few matters of interest from Leicestershire.”
Penelope perked up. “What did Luc say?”
Barnaby inwardly swore, prayed…
Minerva’s smile deepened a fraction. She glanced at her daughter. “Just the usual family matters, dear—and, of course, a strict injunction to watch over you.”
“Oh.” Penelope immediately lost interest. She glanced at the clock. “Look at the time. I have to get ready.”
Barnaby rose as she did. He caught Minerva’s eyes, held them for an instant, then bowed, a touch lower than the norm. “I’ll take good care of Miss Ashford, ma’am. You may count on that.”
Minerva nodded graciously. “Oh, I do, Mr. Adair. I do.”
Somewhat relieved, Barnaby escaped in Penelope’s train. He took his leave of her in the hall, and went off to get ready himself.
“It was true, wasn’t it? What you told Mama?”
Much later that night, after they’d attended Lady Forsythe’s dinner and slain all rumors with the truth, Penelope lay snuggled in Barnaby’s arms, the shadowed billows of his bed a warm and comforting resting place, his arms and body even more so.
She’d never felt so safe and protected—had never previously wanted to feel so. Never previously appreciated the feeling. Even now, with the villainous Mr. Alert trying to maliciously damage her reputation, she doubted she would have found comfort, been able to take comfort, from any other man.
Barnaby Adair, third son of an earl, investigator of tonnish crimes, was different. Very different.
He didn’t, for instance, need any further words to understand to what she was alluding. To know what her mind was dwelling on.
He moved his head and pressed a kiss to her temple. “Sadly, yes. I think Alert took a specific tilt at you, not just at the Foundling House. If you think of it in those terms, his message is plain: if you hurt me, I’ll hurt you.”
After a moment of frowning into the dark, she asked, “But how did he do it? We’ve realized he knows a lot about how the police operate, but to falsify orders from Scotland Yard? Surely there can’t be many people who could do that.”
